Title: Not in This Life
Verse: Bookverse, first person Watson-POV
Rating: Teen
Genre: Angst/Drama
Summary: Post-The Final Problem, alternate timeline. Holmes picks up the pen and sends that letter to Watson.

0o0o

It was within two weeks after my wife's death that I stood before the hallway mirror in my house on Cavendish Place in my mourning clothes, my face almost unrecognizable to myself, its owner. I was sickly again, more sick than even I was as a young man returned from war, still recovering from fever. My face was worn and pale, my hands shook and my eyes had the hollow appearance of a man for whom life would never hold joy again.

I was older as well, bitter and sorrowful. Self-pity, that foolish indulgence, suddenly called to me wrapping me in its disgraceful embrace and I wept brokenly, not only for my poor wife who had suffered a long and weary death, but for my friend Sherlock Holmes whose death I still blamed myself for, as it happened less than a few months before the passing of my wife.

In six months time I'd lost my spouse and my best friend, a man who was more to me than a brother, more to me even than the woman I married, something I think she instinctively understood and did not hate me for. Her kindness after his loss had been the only thing tethering me to a semblance of sanity and now with her gone ...

I shuddered and turned away from the looking glass.

Where was I to go now, I wondered. What was I to do? There was no comfort for me in drink, there never had been and gambling my wife's meager estate away was too distasteful even for a sinful reprobate as myself. My practice was thriving, but my distractions were starting to affect the confidence of my patients. Slowly but surely and one by one I was handing them over to my colleague Anstruther for care. Soon, it would fade away to nothing and I would be back to my former miserable existence, this time without hope of reprieve. I was truly at the end of my rope.

It was on that day, when things appeared most bleak that the letter arrived.

It was delivered by a street Arab, not of Holmes old Irregular troop, but a new one I'd not seen before. He held it out to me with his grubby fingers, waiting patiently while I fumbled for a coin to hand him. He tipped his ragged cap to me before slipping away back into the streets, disappearing between the buildings.

I glanced at the envelope, wondering at the shaky, almost child-like writing on the front. There was only my name, no address and I stared at it, wondering what small mystery might be contained within. Most likely it was a missive from one of my readers, perhaps a little one who'd been ensnared by the myth of Sherlock Holmes and wished to know if he was really dead and if not, why I'd not gone to rescue him yet, as if my friend's life were a fairy tale that didn't have the proper ending.

These letters had a tendency to break my heart, but now, with barely any heart left to hurt, I slipped the letter opener through it with a resigned sigh. I leaned back in my chair and examined it with a distracted gaze, hardly seeing the words at all.

But the handwriting. It was different than the scrawl on the envelope, very different and very familiar.

My heart leapt into my throat, my pulse racing beneath my suddenly flushed skin. I had to grab the side of the desk to retain my balance and it was only with the most determined concentration was I able to focus on the words, that began to blur beneath my tear-filled eyes.

My dearest Watson,

So many times have I picked up this pen only to put it down again, resolving that you should yet remain in innocent ignorance of the folly of your friend. How many excuses have I used, only to finally run out of them, at this, the end of the game.

Let me assure you that my intentions were good ones and thus I find myself on the prescribed path to hell, paved with my own foolishness. Can you believe that I only thought to protect you and your interests, my Watson? Can you ever understand that I thought that leaving you to the sweet care of your Mary in a home of your own would be the kindest thing I could possibly do for you? Can you understand my unintentional mistake, as great and grave as it is?

For yes, dear friend, I am alive. Not for much longer I fear as the enemies I sought to keep away from you and yours grow ever closer to their goal of eliminating the problem of Sherlock Holmes altogether. I will not bore you with the details of my deceit at Reichenbach Falls, except that it was more dumb luck than genius and what an opportunity, I thought, to free poor Watson from his obligations to his great burden, the care and coddling of a man who could bring him nothing but sorrow, by pretending Moriarty had triumphed and that I too had fallen to my death alongside of him.

I will not dare ask your forgiveness. I do not expect nor deserve it, but I will apologize nonetheless. I am sorry, Watson, sorry that you have suffered as much as you have, sorry that I did not have the foresight to realize that even the best laid plans could be laughed at by a cruel Providence as in the case of your dear Mary's unexpected loss. I have hurt you most while attempting to spare you and this is a harsh lesson for me, one I will take the grave.

I have heard from various sources that you are ill, in spirit as well as body and this breaks my heart more than I can express. It is my hope that perhaps your proper indignation at my deceit will relieve some of your sorrow and that you might abandon my memory as unworthy, to concentrate more on yourself - something, if you don't mind me saying so, my dear, that you are not in the habit of doing.

I have instructed my brother - who, yes, has been my only confident up until now - to give you my Stradivarius violin which I wish you to sell and keep the monies for yourself. Not because you are incapable of making your own way, surely not, but because I believe you deserve some leisure, perhaps to travel and write or simply enjoy life to the fullest. I would see you in the south of France, relaxing on the beaches, notebook in hand and the sun shining on your handsome face, your eyes bright with happiness again.

I can hardly do anything more, not matter how desperately I wish I could. Simply know this, my Watson, that your happiness is more important to me than my own. In trying to obtain that for you without your knowledge, I have severely compromised your spirit and I cannot rest until some of your peace of mind has been restored.

Peace be with you, my dearest and best friend. You are always in my heart, until the day I pass from this miserable life, well and truly this time.

With all sincerity, I am always yours,

Sherlock Holmes

I will not describe how long it took me to read the missive, through the storm of tears that the first few sentences inspired. I was at turns furious and shocked, elated and destroyed, thinking that perhaps I'd lost my mind entirely and wondering if I'd been the victim of the cruelest hoax ever perpetrated on a man whether it was by Holmes himself or by some anonymous forger intent on destroying me though his art of imitating Holmes' handwriting.

In the end, I took the letter for what it was, the sorrowful confession of my dear friend who was no longer a memory, but alive - alive - and in desperate need of my help. Determination filled me as I tucked the letter closely to my heart, touching it occasionally to make sure I had not dreamt its receipt.

With greater energy than I'd felt in a very long time, I dressed and headed out to the Diogenes Club to speak with Mycroft Holmes who no doubt would be expecting my appearance. How surreal the world felt to me during that walk. I remember with great detail how the damp air felt against my skin, how the gray sunlight seemed brighter than before and yet everything else was a blur.

True to my prediction he was there in the Stranger's Room, with Holmes violin on his lap. "Doctor ..." he began and I cut him off with a wave of my hand.

"I need but one thing. Your brother's location. Please do not attempt to conceal it from me unless you wish the silent walls of this club to echo with my ire. You have not spared me any grief, Mr. Mycroft, and so I swear I will not spare you. Tell me where he is and I will leave here, not to return."

"And what do you plan on doing when you find him?" Mycroft asked, narrowing his small eyes at me. "I assure you he has punished himself time and again for the grief he's caused you."

"I plan, sir, on delivering him from those who would harm him and bring him back here to England where he belongs. We have suffered from the lack of his presence long enough."

Mycroft's gaze softened, the corners of his mouth lifting. "You're going to save him from Colonel Moran? That's quite a quest, Doctor. The man is wily enough to escape every agent I've set upon him since the day he began to hunt my brother."

"I'll do everything that's within my power to accomplish my task but I cannot do anything until I know where he is." My eyes began to sting and I rubbed at them angrily. "I am rather in a rush so ..."

"He's in a town close to Prague," Mycroft finished, perhaps sensing my distress and discomfited by it. "It is from where I received the package with your letter and my instructions. How much longer he'll be there is anyone's guess." With a grunt and search through his pants' pocket, he handed me a piece of paper on which was written Holmes' last known address.

Obviously, he was already prepared for my request. Without further ado, I took the paper and bowed to him with cold politeness. He held up the violin for me to take and I waved it away. "Holmes will want that when he comes back," I said simply, ignoring Mycroft's knowing grin.

"As you wish." Mycroft said, before returning to the silent sanctuary of his newspaper.

I left without turning back, the precious paper folded within my palm. How strange was it that I now had a goal when this morning I had nothing. That I had a quest, when before my life was but emptiness.

That I had my best friend - my heart - back, whether he knew it or not.

o0o0o

to be continued ...

Reviews are appreciated. :D